by Jc Emery
“Talk, asshole,” Grady says on a sneer. I can’t blame him for refusing to let go of the chip on his shoulder. Scavo scared both Grady’s woman and his kid. We’re supposed to protect our women and our kids, and we keep failing. It doesn’t sit well with any of us.
“Mr. Stone, the last time we spoke, we were not on even ground. It seems I was sent to retrieve the principe and principessa under false pretenses. Had I been aware of that fact, I believe our last meeting would have gone much more smoothly.”
“You talked to Aunt Gloria?” Michael says. He turns his attention to Scavo, who nods.
“So you get it now?” Pop asks. I remember back when he was a total hothead, just like Ryan, mouthing off and smarting off every chance he got. I was only a kid, but it intimidated me to the point where I wasn’t sure I wanted to get to know him. The old man’s mellowed with age, and he lets shit go that he never would have even a few years ago. Like this meeting. He’s way too relaxed for what we’re doing here, but that’s Pop. He’s wearing down, tired, and somewhere in the back of my head I worry that he’s ready to hang up his gavel. I’m not ready for that.
“I wish no harm upon Alexandra. She was promised to me once.” The moment Scavo says the words, Pop’s head shoots up and his eyes narrow in on Ryan. My brother’s got his mouth open, ready to fucking snap at the idea of Alex with another man, but somehow Pop’s glare wills him into obedience, something that doesn’t usually work. This meeting is important, though. We have to get through it without more bloodshed if we intend to take Mancuso out for once and for all.
“I understand she belongs to Forsaken now.”
“She belongs to herself,” I catch myself saying loudly. My voice booms through the room, surprising me. I didn’t expect to speak, didn’t want to. Alex does belong to us, but the reality that she’s never had the opportunity to figure herself out, independent from anyone else, just pisses me off. Maybe I can empathize with her situation more than I’d like.
“I would very much like to clear the air about recent events that your club may be investigating, but before I provide you with too much information, I need a few reassurances.”
“Like?” Wyatt says. He’s standing directly behind Pop with his bulging arms folded over his broad chest. The man is a fucking monster, and his deep voice radiates his size throughout the crowded space.
“I am not an ignorant street thug who chases his own ass because he can’t lead himself down a one-way street, but that’s exactly the kind of leadership the Mancuso family is dealing with right now. Carlo is still in Rikers, and as far as I know, he’s not calling the shots. The plays are too messy, the crews have no direction, and even the capos are starting to consider dissent. It’s the worst fucking nightmare for a man like me who joined an organization because he believed in what he was doing. I want my organization back, and in light of recent discoveries and events, I no longer believe that can happen with Carlo Mancuso as the head of the family.”
“And who the fuck do you think should be running Brooklyn? You?” Michael snaps with a furrowed brow. For the first time since Scavo sat down, Michael appears to distrust him.
“No, principe,” Scavo says evenly and with a firm belief in his words. “We’ve talked about this. You should be head of the family.” Michael sucks in a deep breath and stares at Scavo with a mixture of confusion, fear, and understanding. Something passes between them, an understanding maybe, before Michael nods his head. He scrubs his face with his hands and groans.
Heavy is the crown, I guess. The mention of a massive reorganization surprises me. It’s bold for Scavo to say that shit, especially in mixed company. Forsaken isn’t a friend to Mancuso, and Scavo mentioning dissent is a capital offense. It’s just ballsy and stupid enough to tell me that he’s serious. He’s earning our trust by refusing to align himself with the old regime even though his position could get him killed.
“It’s the right thing,” Scavo says on a low tone.
“Something you want to share?” Pop asks.
“We talked about it, but I thought he was full of shit,” Michael confesses. “Nobody’s really happy with the way things have been going the last few years—some of us haven’t been happy since Grandpa died and Dad took over—but I never took Leo seriously.”
“Well, you better start,” Scavo says, and the room falls silent. If Scavo is planning an upset in power, then maybe we can use this to our advantage.
“Still haven’t named your price,” Wyatt reminds Scavo.
“I’m not your prisoner. I’m your ally. I want the principe free to return to New York when this is settled, and I want Forsaken to agree upon a mutually favorable arrangement that allows you to run your club and us to run our family.”
Nobody speaks in an effort to absorb the information being thrown at us. It’s a compelling arrangement, that’s for sure, but whether or not we’d be fucked over in the process is another question. It’s probably better than remaining here like sitting ducks as we have been.
“In an effort to earn your trust . . .” Scavo says and trails off. He raises his arms slowly in the air and reaches inside his suit jacket. I hear the men around me respond in kind, but I’m so focused on what I’m doing that it barely registers. Within three seconds, I have my gun out and pointed at Scavo’s head with the safety off. The man moves slowly and pinches something inside his jacket. Only Michael and Pop don’t have weapons drawn on Scavo. Is Pop really that fucking confident that the asshole isn’t going to blow him away? He’s sitting directly in front of him, a few feet away, and is the easiest target.
Scavo pulls out a few folded pieces of paper and hands them to Pop. From over his shoulder, I peer down at the pages as they unfold, and I tuck my gun back into the waistband of my jeans. The first page is a grainy but still readable amateur photograph of an unremarkable sedan that looks like it’s leaving the 101 Club. I check the plates on the sedan to ensure the characters are legible so I can investigate this later. Pop flips to the next page, and it appears I don’t have to do the leg work. Scavo’s already done it for me. The white eight-and-a-half-by-eleven page has two photocopied documents on it. The first is a vehicle registration card that lists the owner as some fuck in San Francisco. The second is the man’s driver’s license.
“Shit,” Pop says as we seem to come to the same conclusion.
“I’ll take it that you recognize him. As you should since he’s responsible for the botched hit on Forsaken at the 101 Club.”
“It was him,” I say, barely able to form the words as I stare at the DMV photo of the last man I killed. He hurt her. This . . . bastard took something from Mindy she won’t ever get back. He tortured her, humiliated her, and destroyed her. For that, I killed him. My only regret is that I did it swiftly as I moved down the hall and into the office at Universal Grounds. I should have made him suffer the way she did. I should have kept him alive and let him beg for death. I should have let myself indulge a little before it ended.
I still hear his voice, breaking up my rest, on the nights I fall into a deep enough sleep to actually dream. The nightmares used to be commonplace, but now they’ve evolved into something akin to night terrors, with violent thrashing and a suffocating need to make somebody suffer. My pain is enough to piss me off and make me edgy. Holly’s pain, her tears, and her panic attacks send me to a place where I think that maybe I should rip off all my flesh, and it still wouldn’t distract me from my anger.
But it’s when I think of Mindy and how she’s suffered that I go looking for something to do. Somebody to torture. Even when I’m done and I should be sated, I’m not. Pain makes everything go away—except for this.
I couldn’t save Mindy from that horror, and for that, I’ll never forgive myself. The only thing worse than what she suffered at his hands is what she could suffer at mine if she were stupid enough to ever want me in all the ways I want her.
Thankfully for her, she’s not that stupid.
Thankfully for me, I relish the p
ain that comes with the bitter loneliness of not being able to touch her, love her, consume her the way she consumes me.
Chapter 5
“I’m proud of you for doing this.” Holly keeps her voice cheerful and steady. I don’t respond because I don’t know how. What am I to say to that? Yeah, I’m a badass for agreeing to eat hot soup. She seems to catch on to my lack of enthusiasm over our little attempt at home-based therapy. “This is a big deal for you, so stop acting like it’s not.”
“I feel like a goober,” I admit.
“Easier to be terrified of heat and moisture than to work yourself through it.” Her head bobs in agreement, but it’s her tone and eyes that give her away. She’s mocking me.
“Judge not lest ye shall be judged,” I snap and wipe my damp hands on my jean-clad thighs. Holly’s eyes bug out of her pretty little skull, and she shakes her head disapprovingly. Pre-Heath Mindy cursed occasionally, but post-Heath Mindy never did. She wanted to distance herself from the disaster she had become. But neither Mindy quotes scripture.
“Fuck. I sound like my mother.” I cover my face with my hands and suck in calming breaths. Well, they’re supposed to be calming, but they’re not doing their job.
“The only way that could have been scarier is if your head had spun around and you’d been spitting green stuff everywhere.”
I narrow my eyes on my cousin, who also happens to be my best friend, and I shake my head. I huff my irritation for a few moments before the ridiculousness of the situation overtakes me. Holly starts it with a light snort, and before I know it, we’ve dissolved into a fit of giggles. My belly aches, my chest tightens, and my lungs strain under the weight of my laughter. It’s lovely to be laughing again.
When Holly and I calm ourselves down, she clears her throat and shoves the stupid bowl of now-warm soup at me. At least it’s what used to be my favorite—broccoli cheddar. The creamy, cheesy substance is laden with bits of bright green broccoli pieces. Taking a deep breath, I focus in on what we’ve talked about and do my best to follow through. Remind myself how I used to feel about it, focus in on the smell, then the touch, and finally the taste, paying equal measure to each one so I can absorb the entirety of the experience. The first part proves easy enough. I can always remember what I once liked about something, whether it be a food, piece of clothing, song, or even a person. My memories are strong and fierce and sometimes—mostly, actually—fucking crippling.
The smell of the soup isn’t altogether unpleasant. Foods carry a slightly different scent when they’re warm than they do when they’re cold—a point Holly refuses to acquiesce on—and despite the fact that the smell isn’t unpleasant, I still find myself desperately trying to will away the disgust. It’s just soup. It’s just warm soup, is all. Holly’s brown eyes are patient, but her fingers are tapping on the kitchen table absently. I told her when she suggested this that we’d end up here. She was bound to become annoyed with me at some point, and it seems some point is now.
This is ridiculous.
Before I lose my nerve, I seize the spoon from the bowl’s edge and take a heaping spoonful. I pause for but a moment to meet Holly’s wide eyes and then unceremoniously shove the contents of the spoon into my mouth.
Shit. It’s hotter than I thought. My tongue burns and the roof of my mouth aches from the awful surprise. My face screws up from the assault, and I slap at the table maniacally. Holly shoves a glass of ice water at me. Its sides are wet with condensation. I think twice before wrapping my hand around it, but somehow I’m drawn to it. As beads of moisture slide down to the table, my brain is assaulted with all the feelings I try so hard to push down all the time.
I hate the memories of my tears wetting my face as that man shoves my face into the wooden desk. The room is so warm, and my skin is hot to the touch. Every violent push, every sadistic word, and every single sound from that night floods my mind. My memories start to slip back further in time to when I was in another dark place. Only back then I welcomed the heat in my veins that numbed the aching loneliness of losing Heath. Now, the very thought of the entire process—from scoring to finding a workable vein and all the way to the swollen, red-hot rush that would sweep over me makes me sick.
And to think I almost succumbed to that the other night.
Slowly, the burning in my mouth cools. I force the mouthful of soup down my throat and remind myself that the chunks I’m swallowing are broccoli and not my own vomit. Not a stranger’s fluids.
Instinctively, I grab at the damp glass and gulp as much of the water as I can before my poor stomach feels too full to consume another drop. The uncomfortable wetness makes my body tense up, but I don’t bother to release it like I’m prone to do. No, I’m here to make progress, and I can’t do that if I don’t confront what’s bothering me.
Across the table, Holly sits perfectly still and watches me with a nervous gaze. I vow to myself to keep my hand on the glass and eyes firmly fixed on my best friend for as long as it takes the irrational discomfort to subside. I’m going to get better. I have to. It takes probably five minutes, at least, for me to feel comfortable enough to set the glass down. My chin wobbles as I fight the losing battle of trying to convince myself that I don’t actually have to dry my hand. I hate how wet it is and after a minute decide I’ve made strides in other areas and that it’s not such a big failure to give in to the nagging need to dry my hand.
“This is major progress.” I let Holly give me the compliment and try to accept it as gracefully as I can. It’s not really that easy, so instead of verbalizing anything, I just nod my head. I took a bite of soup, haven’t thrown it up yet, and even held a damp glass without losing myself to the demons and forgetting where I am.
Yeah, I’m such a badass.
“Do you want to try working on touch now?”
No, I don’t. My issues with touching and being touched are worse than my temperature and moisture issues. Touch makes my other triggers look like silly quirks.
“Yes.”
Because I can’t go on in the world in an invisible, self-created bubble of fear. Holly is both my cousin and my best friend. She knows me better than anyone else. This girl has seen me at my worst and has never intentionally made me feel poorly about it. There’s nobody safer for me to work through my issues with. Well, there is, but I can’t allow myself to go down that road, and I certainly can’t tell Holly that in what few fantasies I have left, Ian is helping me through touch. Holly likes Ian, as well she should since she’s woken him up in the middle of the night enough times to work her out of her own head, but that doesn’t mean she likes Ian for me. I wasn’t particularly easy on her when she first hooked up with Grady, either. I’ve pretty much made an uncomfortable bed, and I’d rather not lie in it if I don’t have to.
Holly gives me a brief reminder of our touch therapy remedy and how it works. She’s not a doctor, and I think she got all this stuff off the Internet, but it’s been helping little by little, so I don’t much care how legitimate a form of therapy it really is. We’re to start out with her hand gently reaching out for mine. She’ll place her fingertips on the top of my hand for a very short amount of time and then remove them long enough for me to regain my bearings. We’re to repeat the process several times per session until I can reasonably stand her touch for longer periods of time without the sickness creeping up on me.
I liked being able to touch Ian—being happy to touch him— and I want more of it. I want human contact once more. I want to feel connected to someone by more than just familial obligation. I want to be loved and protected and touched.
So when it’s time for Holly to touch me, I don’t pull back my hand even though, instinctively, I want to. It’s just Holly, and the rational part of me knows that. It’s not that I fear she’s going to hurt me. It’s just that human touch brings back the sordid memories of those men and how I felt before they violated me—the nauseating dread when they put their hands on me, the horrifying anticipation of what kind of hell they intend
ed to unleash. I had no idea. And every time another person tries to make contact with me, I feel the same terror I felt even before they forced themselves on me.
I manage through three rounds of hand touches, even initiating two touches on Holly’s wrist because I’m feeling brave. Holly suggests we give in after that, because although I’m making consistent progress, she doesn’t want to push me too much. While we’re on our last touch of Holly’s fingertips to my hand, the house alarm beeps, signaling that the front door is being opened.
Loud voices fill the Grady residence immediately. Holly slowly pulls away and grabs the soup bowl to take into the kitchen to clean off. I’d offer to do it myself, but I’ve never done well with food floating in water. Even before that night, I’ve not been a fan of cleaning up soup bowls. First in view is Grady, Holly’s man, and then comes Duke, whom I’m rather fond of. Before my life was flushed down the loo—again—I stayed with Duke and his woman, Nic, for a few weeks. That was back when she was pregnant with their daughter, Robin, who is now pushing two weeks old.
Ian had promised he would take me to the hospital to meet the baby, but I guess he forgot. I didn’t call or text him once Holly called to tell me that Nic had gone into labor. I just sat and waited by my phone, stupidly expecting him to remember a promise he’d made two months prior. I felt like such a sad sap, because it would have meant the world to me for Ian to take me to meet baby Robin. My disappointment at his absence was so profound that when Holly asked if she could take me, I selfishly turned her down and have so far denied myself baby time.
“Hey, Minds,” Grady says with the softest smile I think he’s capable of. By my estimation, Grady is the second-largest member of Forsaken. He’s a hulking man with a gruff attitude and one of the scariest glares I’ve ever seen. Holly used to share my opinion on this matter, but now she insists that he’s really just a big teddy bear. She’s clearly biased, but I’m also starting to suspect she might have some form of brain damage. Just looking at him reminds me of how defenseless I am by comparison. Not that he’d hurt me. None of the members of Forsaken would hurt me. I know that. Still, their muscled frames are intimidating.
